If there's a Freud where Aranea's from she's too blissfully unaware of him to be mad, waggling an eyebrow in exaggerated comedy as she leans the lance against a wall instead.

"I do like whiskey, especially when I can get it to go. You got any cloth in here you're not wearing? I don't mind lending a hand if it gives me a chance to catch my breath."

I's truer than she makes it sound. There's no world in which she wouldn't fight, but for now it seems like there's an inexhaustible supply of the damn things. It's wearing her down.